perhaps, in another life
by quorra laraex
Summary: Every little word she says makes him more and more humane. — "The things in life you can't see, I can feel," she says, and Ulquiorra is solemnly reminded of the perks of having a heart.


perhaps, in another life

* * *

He thinks about her long, strawberry-blonde hair and wonders if it's natural. He thinks about how soft her voice really is, and wonders if she fails to notice he's not fooled by her innocence. He thinks about her eyes, a light shade of brown, and wonders if it's seen through his very soul. He thinks of her a lot—every day, every hour, practically every minute. And he doesn't know if this is healthy, but he doesn't give a single damn about that. However, he knows it's not appropriate—not one bit—and no matter how strong he is, his resolve didn't matter. He didn't know what he needed to throw the pinnacle of thoughts all revolving the maiden from his head. But that doesn't matter either, because appropriate or not, he likes it.

He can't bring himself to kill her, or how Aizen prefers: slaughtering. Ulquiorra says there is no need to murder the woman, and so be it. He guards her, day and night, almost like a dog. He doesn't know what's become of him to be so protective over such a mere young lady, and he has no clue as to why it's her. It ought to be considered despicable, absolutely repugnant, for an espada of such strength and demeanor to have such a weakness as a modern girl.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his arrancar suit and he stands perfectly still in front of her cellar. He hears her approaching him from the back, her light breathing signaling her dread. He doesn't turn.

"What do you want, woman?"

Her breathing remains weak. Curious, he turns around and finds her fingers curled tightly around the cellar, leaning against the bars in her grip. She looks as if she's about to pass out, but he's positive she won't. He's been forcing her to eat the food for that very reason. Health—it's something important for those of a human being and he looks after hers daily.

"Why ignore?"

And once again, she does not answer; only to curl and uncurl those slender fingers against the cold poles and a small tinge of wanting to feel them against his pokes around his guilty thoughts for a second.

It irritates him, when she does that—when she goes to him only to not say anything, and there's another thing he doesn't know; _why_. With her, it's different. It's because of her, a plain woman, that he even questions his existence. She tells him about her friends, and he begins to wonder if he has any. She tells him about a family, and he realizes he's never really had anyone. She tells him about having a heart, and he contemplates if such an organ is buried somewhere in his body. This woman, this maiden, this teenager has the power to open his eyes to a different set of rules and ideas and levels of insanity.

She finally speaks, her eyes flickering to his, "Why can't you just call me by my name?"

It's a stupid question, but he doesn't know if this is some kind of trick; so he doesn't think about it, not much—anyway. He sticks to the obvious. Her voice is cold, but her eyes are warm. She's a juxtapose and a mind game to him, and he's not very good at playing. His hands are firm in his grip. "There is no need for me to do so. Name-calling only leads to attachments. Attachments are for the weak."

And it's back.

The silence.

Humans were infuriating. However, they are most certainly interesting, with their (may he say, _pathetic_) hopeful and optimistic calls and vibrant personalities. But most of all, lively—something he isn't, wasn't, will never be. He won't ever know what it would have been like, to be born as one of them. He ponders at the thought, unsure of whether the topic saddens him or angers him, but he remembers he is an arrancar. He's dead; all left of him is skin and bones, nothing more, nothing less. He has thought about it, though, a rather lot since he met her, but he doesn't speak of it—ever, because it's useless. The fourth espada knows it isn't in his place, and he's aware asking others that are like him wouldn't get him any answers about why they are who they are.

In return of her question, he asks her one he won't be able to ask anyone else. "Do you enjoy being a weak sapling of a human being?"

She lifts her head, which has been dully lying against the iron of her chamber entrance. Her voice doesn't shake. "I do."

To embrace such weakness is incredible to him. It's hard to believe, and his eyes almost widen. He wants to ask why, he wants the answers to unfold, but he restrains himself. He doesn't need such answers. They're unnecessary, after-all. But to either his reluctance, or dismay, she continues.

"The things in life you can't see, I can feel."

It reminds him of their past conversation, and he repeats while shutting his eyes in remembrance, "The heart."

—

It's when he's drowned in knowledge that he's defeated, when he knows. He probably almost always knew, but just kept it deep within him, restraining himself from embracing the fact. He's weak.

It has always been her, she's made him speak and revealed his mind to humane thoughts, and most importantly, she has been the only one that has made him ever feel anything other than his sympathy for those of which who had no strength. Because she's Orihime Inoue, a person who was merely only supposed to be used by his master, but no—_no_, not at all, and it was only he who knew she holds so much more than that.

She holds his heart, his being, his corrupted soul. And when he reaches for her hand a last time, for once hoping there was one more chance he could have that exceptional electric jolt in his fading body, she understands. She holds her palm to him, her fingers that once curled the iron bars of her cellar now stretching toward his, her thief, her villain, her dragon that once guarded her prison, and her utmost companion in warmth and in yet, strong despair and will. It is enough for him, he feels it—what he wants to feel, right before his body becomes full-blown dust. Loved—and being it ignites another exhilarating feeling through his soul; the feeling of being alive, right before his very death.

And perhaps, in another life, he would find her once more as he remembers her name being rolled smoothly through the air.

"_Orihime_."

* * *

**a/n:** this is actually my official first ulquihime fic. so i'm sorry if it's horrible. i've made one before, but it was chapter-ed and unfinished and stupidly cheesy because i was like ten i don't know. LOL. i don't count that. i've even deleted it. anyways, this couple is definitely angsty and i'm in love with angst so here. i got her prison cellar wrong, though, apparently. cause she doesn't have iron bars as her chamber door, but whatever lol

i wish ulquiorra was alive. /sobbing literally


End file.
